


Pullin' Outta Here

by speakingwosound (sev313)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Class Issues, M/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 02:21:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1411369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/pseuds/speakingwosound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m a poor boy from North Philly.  I know who I am.”</p><p>Richie bristles. “I’m a poor boy from North Philly.  And I’m gonna go pro.”</p><p>Jeff’s sure that he will, too.  He hasn’t known Richie for long, but he already knows that Richie’s the kind of guy who gets what he wants.  He’s probably the kind of guy to drag others with him, too, and Jeff hopes that, for just a little while, he can ride Richie’s coattails.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pullin' Outta Here

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the [Reverse Big Bang](http://hockey-rbb.livejournal.com/) challenge on LJ. Thank you to [ad_astra_03](http://ad_astra_03.livejournal.com/) and [wisful_joy](http://wistful_joy.livejournal.com/) for putting both Jackson Browne and The Gaslight Anthem on the most amazing [ road trip mix](http://ad-astra-03.livejournal.com/2902.html)! Everyone should go listen immediately. Hopefully while reading this story.

When Jeff Carter meets Mike Richards, he’s seventeen, a little buzzed, and sacked out in Sharpie’s basement. Richie’s an awkward looking kid, all curly hair and striking eyes and sharp elbows as he squeezes onto the couch next to Jeff. It’s a tight fit, with Hartsy taking up more than his share on Richie’s other side.

“Sorry, sorry.” Richie digs through his ridiculous backpack, swearing and throwing a yellowed notebook and a half-eaten bag of Doritos onto the carpet before he holds up a small bag triumphantly. “I, ahh, brought a peace offering,” as if a bag of mediocre weed makes up for whatever crime this kid thinks he’s committed.

“Any good?”

The kid shrugs. “It’s okay. My brother grows it, so it’s legit.” Meaning, not laced with anything weird. Jeff’s had enough bad highs to last a lifetime.

“Cool.” Jeff holds out his hand. “I’m Carts.”

“Richie.” The kid – Richie – shakes Jeff’s hand, looking relieved that Jeff’s still talking to him. It’s a little endearing.

“You wanna-?” He holds out the bag and Jeff takes it.

“Sure.” He starts rolling, measured, well practiced. Richie is staring at his fingers. “You know Sharpie?”

“Yeah.” Richie shrugs. Jeff hands him the joint and after a long, slow puff, Richie relaxes back against the couch and Jeff’s shoulder. “Yeah, we play hockey together. Sometimes.”

“Hockey, eh?” Jeff tries to joke, and it’s not really that funny, but Richie laughs anyway. Deep in his chest, so that his body shakes where it’s pressed along Jeff’s side. “I play, too,” Jeff says, because he does, when he can, and there’s something about this kid that just makes Jeff _want_.

“Really?” Richie’s eyes are even more striking when they’re wide and surprised. “Any good?”

Jeff shrugs. “Sure.” Because he’d be better if he could spend less time taking care of his sister and more time at the rink, but he’s not bad.

“I play Junior B’s. Should probably be playing A’s, but, my scholarship doesn’t cover all the travel.” Richie shrugs, in that way that suggests it’s not a big deal, but it really is.

Jeff nods. “Yeah.” He had thought about playing Juniors once. Was even offered a scholarship a couple years back, but hockey’s expensive, even with a scholarship. 

“I play with the guys, too.” He waves his hand at Sharpie and Hartsy. “Just pick-up games, but, you should play with us.”

“Yeah, sometime. Definitely.”

“No, shit, this weekend, yeah?”

“Ahh-”

“Saturday. At the rink on Frontenac.” _Be there_ is strongly implied, and Richie is clearly not someone to fuck with. Jeff nods, dumbly, as he tries to remember if he has anything on Saturday. He can’t remember if his mom’s working a double shift or not.

Richie takes the nod as a _yes_ , because he’s punching Jeff in the shoulder, shouting too loud and too hot in Jeff’s ear, “this is gonna be awesome,” before taking another long drag on the joint.

***

They break into the rink Saturday night. 

Well, maybe they don’t entirely break in. “We have a key,” Richie insists, holding up the key to the Zamboni door. There’s no way he came about it legally, but Jeff’s getting the chance to skate, so he’s not going to ask too many questions.

They fumble in the dark a bit, though, until Sharpie finds the flashlight app on his phone. It helps, until they find the main switch, and then the entire rink is basked in the low, blue light of emergency power. It’s enough light to get suited up, and then Jeff’s on the ice and it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t need to see, because this is hockey and hockey’s in his bones.

“Losers buy a round after.” Richie taps Jeff’s shin pads as they skate a few warm-up laps. He leans forward, breath white in the cool air as he speaks, low and serious. “And I don’t have shit for cash this week, so we gotta win.”

“Sure,” Jeff agrees. He picks up a puck at the goal line, passes it to Ritchie, backhand-to-backhand, without looking. “Not gonna be a problem.”

It’s not. They combine for three goals and four assists and set up Sharpie for a couple more. They win, easily, but at the bar afterwards, Jeff buys Nitty a beer anyway.

“For scoring on you so much,” Jeff explains as he passes it over.

Nitty glares at it in offense, his Finnish accent strong. His family only emigrated a few years ago, and the American public school system has yet to knock the accent out of him. “You cheat. Must have.”

On Jeff’s other side, Richie sits up straighter. “Fuck you, we didn’t.”

Nitty turns his glare on Richie. “You were never that good before.”

Richie shrugs. “Maybe I just never had a winger who could snipe before.”

“Hey,” Sharpie protests from across the table. 

Richie flicks a coaster at him. “I only speak truth, man.”

Jeff feels warm. It’s probably the beer.

***

“Welcome to Burger King. How can I help you?”

“Mmm, I’d like a triple whopper. Coke. Large fry. No, wait, diet coke.”

Jeff recognizes that voice. “Coke gonna fuck up your diet?”

Richie mocks shock. “You allowed to swear at the customers?”

Jeff shrugs. “If they’re assholes, sure.”

“Got a break coming up?”

“Um,” Jeff glances around. Officially, he has another hour or so to go, but there isn’t a line and Uppie’s just gotten in. “I’m gonna take a smoke break.”

Uppie gives him the finger, but shoves him away to take over his cash register. He eyes Richie as he waves Jeff away. “Go, go, have your date, or whatever this,” he motions between them, “is.”

“Fuck off,” Jeff tells him, pulling off his hat and motioning Richie to follow him.

“I, ahh, actually want my burger.”

Jeff rolls his eyes. “Come on.” He throws a couple of burgers and a scoopful of fries into a bag and heads outside. It’s a sunny day, if a little cold, and Jeff sits down on the steps leading to the employee entrance and lighting up a cigarette. Richie stares at him. “What? I said I was going on a smoke break.”

“Smoking isn’t good for breath control.”

Jeff shrugs. “What do I care? As long as I can get through sex and a mile jog, I’m good.”

Richie bites his lip, as if he wants to say something about Jeff’s bad habits or his sex life Jeff doesn’t know, but he settles on accepting his burger. “This isn’t a whopper.”

“It’s free,” Jeff bites back.

Richie just shrugs, digging into the bag of fries and eating quietly for a moment, before blurting out, as if he can’t hold it in anymore. “You’re good.”

“At making hamburgers?”

Richie pushes him with his shoulder. “At hockey, you asshole. You have great hands.”

Jeff freezes. That cannot mean what it sounds like. “Thanks?”

“No, I mean it. Those goals you scored last night. Fuck.” Richie looks aroused just thinking about it. Jeff’s probably projecting. “Beauties.”

Jeff shrugs, kind of distracted. When Richie blushes, it starts high on his cheekbones and follows down his neck into the collar of his t-shirt.

“Have you ever thought about going pro?”

But that, right there, that pulls him up. Hard. “Ahh, no?”

“You should.”

“That’s insane.”

“It’s really not.”

“I get on the ice, like, ten times a year.” Richie’s looking at him, his eyes warm and wet and Jeff can’t tell if he looks pitying or sad. It makes Jeff defensive. “I’m a poor boy from North Philly. I know who I am.”

Richie bristles. “I’m a poor boy from North Philly. And I’m gonna go pro.”

Jeff’s sure that he will, too. He hasn’t known Richie for long, but he already knows that Richie’s not the kind of guy to let things get in his way or make excuses for his dreams. He’s probably the kind of guy to drag others with him, too, and Jeff hopes that, for just a little while, he can ride Richie’s coattails.

“I believe you,” Jeff tells him, sincerely, and then Richie’s grinning, stealing the last fry and hopping up.

“I’ve gotta get to the rink, but, Saturday again?”

“I need to check with my sister, but-”

“Bring her with you.” Richie grins, jogging away backwards. “I’m not taking no for an answer. Thanks for the lame burger.”

“Free loader,” Jeff calls out, and Richie holds up his middle finger before turning the corner out of sight.

***

“Another one?”

“Sure.” Jeff leans over, snagging the can from Loops’ hand and snapping open the top.

“Can I have one?” Christine asks, looking up from her phone. Jeff doesn’t exactly like that she’s even here, sitting on the steps of Hartsy’s porch and listening to the kind of shit the guys talk about. But, their mother works nights, and Jeff wasn’t about to give up a pick-up game followed by beers, so he asked her to tag along.

He frowns at her. “You’re fifteen.”

“So?” She asks, drawing out the word, making her sound impossibly younger.

“Hey, just,” Hartsy shrugs, “let her have one. She’s here, ain’t she?”

Jeff can’t really argue with that. He nods, slowly. “Don’t tell mom.” She snorts and, yeah, like their mother would even care. She was Christine’s age when she conceived Jeff, too drunk and high to remember a condom.

“Whatever.” Christine opens the beer, settling back on the seat and pulling Angry Birds up on her phone. 

“Don’t speak like that to your brother,” Richie chastises, as he climbs up the stairs past her, pausing just long enough to rumple her hair. She frowns, but nods without looking up from her game. Jeff wishes she’d listen to him like that, but Richie’s a natural born leader, on and off the ice, and Jeff just doesn’t command the kind of attention Richie does. 

Besides, she just likes Richie better, which Jeff can’t fault her for. He likes Richie better, too.

It hasn’t taken long for Richie to become the most important person in Jeff’s life. Richie is persistent, alluring, stubborn as hell, and he’s decided, for some reason, that Jeff’s his. Jeff never had a chance.

“Hey,” Richie punches Jeff’s shoulder, motioning for him to scoot over so that he can squeeze onto the seat with Jeff. Their thighs are pressed together, tight and warm, and Jeff barely notices when Richie steals his beer and finishes half in one go.

“Rink locked up?” He asks.

Richie nods. He always stays behind to make sure that everything is back in place; it’s one of the things that convinces Jeff that their time on the ice isn’t exactly kosher. “We’re all good.”

“Cool.” Richie hasn’t returned Jeff’s beer, so Jeff reaches his hand out to Loops, wiggling his fingers.

Loops rolls his eyes, but slaps another can into Jeff’s palm. “Codependent assholes.” 

Jeff wiggles his eyebrows, leaning back in the chair. Richie settles, his shoulder resting against Jeff’s chest, and stays there.

It’s a pleasant night, warm and bright with a full moon, the sounds of crickets and sirens and porch parties all around them. Jeff loves North Philly, even if it’s a hellhole of a town.

They finish off the beers and the boys head off to the corner bar for more. Jeff begs off. Christine really is fifteen, and he needs to get her home before he gets her into even more trouble. Richie begs off, too, preferring a walk home with Jeff and Christine, warm arm brushing Jeff’s as they walk.

“You didn’t have to,” Jeff protests, even as they’re a block from Loops’.

“I’m good.” Richie promises. “I need to save the calories anyway.”

Jeff raises an eyebrow at Richie’s stomach.

Richie shrugs. “I was slow. On the ice tonight.”

Jeff frowns. “Didn’t notice.”

“Course you didn’t.” Richie grins. “I was playing at your speed for once.”

“Asshole,” Jeff breathes, pushing Richie’s shoulder and taking off. Richie swears, but follows, almost beating Jeff to the corner. “You’re right,” Jeff says, conversationally, as he struggles to catch his breath. “You do need to lay off the beer. You let me win.”

“No, I didn’t.” Richie shakes his head, his eyes wide and dark. “I really didn’t.”

***

“For Saturday.” Richie shoves an envelope into Jeff’s hand, looking inexplicably shy as he does it.

Jeff opens the flap and peers inside. There are four tickets.

“It’s not gonna be a great game,” Richie says, quickly. “It’s just Junior B, but, it’s-”

“Hockey,” Jeff agrees. He hasn’t been to a hockey game since he was five years old and his grandfather took him to a Flyers game for his birthday. They had eaten hot dogs and french fries and sat at the very top. Jeff had wondered if he would be able to stay forever if he had just slid off his seat and fallen, become one with the ice. Now he knows that there are no such things as hockey gods, just broken necks.

“Yeah. And,” Richie shuffles his feet, staring pointedly at the sidewalk. “There are going to be some scouts there. From the NHL.”

“Scouts,” Jeff repeats, dumbly. Scouts are serious.

Richie rubs at the back of his neck. Jeff grins.

“Are you nervous?” He teases. 

“No,” Richie says, too quickly and too loudly. “No,” he visibly sets his shoulders. “Of course not. I’m the best on the team.”

“You are,” Jeff agrees. He’s seen them practice a few times, and Richie’s head and shoulders above his teammates. “Better than most of this years draftees.”

Richie shrugs. “We’ll see.”

Jeff shakes his head. “Nah, you’re gonna do great.”

“Yeah, well,” Richie rubs at the back of his neck again, but at least now he’s looking at Jeff. “Just, you’ll be there, right?”

Jeff nods. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Richie shakes his head, bumping Jeff’s shoulder. “Fuck off.”

***

Richie plays beautifully. Jeff brings Sharpie, Hartsy, and Uppie with him, and they spend most of the game trash talking both teams. Jeff, though, never takes his eye off Richie. A goal, two assists, four hits, and a ridiculously fast backcheck to break up a two-on-one. Jeff’s not too proud to admit that he’s a little hard by the time the game is over.

The call comes a month later.

Jeff’s at Richie’s, watching Christine and Richie’s little brothers, and he lets it go to voice mail before he texts Richie to come home ASAP. 

It’s from an unknown number with a California area code, and Richie waits until he and Jeff are locked in the upstairs bathroom before he plays it. It’s from the LA Kings, asking him to training camp. They reiterate, over and over again, that it’s just a trial thing, for undrafted rookies, but it’s NHL _training camp_ , and Jeff is grinning so wide his lips are hurting.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Richie breathes, shallow and fragile. “It probably won’t work out.”

“Yeah, but,” Jeff’s still grinning and he has to speak around it, “you have to try.”

“Well, yeah.” As if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Richie has that look on his face, the frown he gets between his eyes that means he’s made up his mind and Jeff repeats the same thing he said a few weeks ago, before the scouts came. “You’re going to do great.” Jeff’s more sure of it now than he’s ever been.

“We’ll see.”

“Yeah.”

“No, I mean-” Richie looks frustrated. “You’re coming with me,” as if Jeff never had a chance. Which, he guesses, he never did.

***

“Oh my god, Jeff, I’m going to be fine.” Christine rolls her eyes, drawing out the last word.

“I know, I know, but-”

“No.” She’s standing in their kitchen, in bare feet and too-long pajamas, brandishing a spatula at him. She’s never looked more like their mother. Jeff’s chest aches. “You’re not giving this up. Even I can tell you want to go.”

“Well, yeah,” Jeff agrees, because that’s not really the question here. There was never really a chance that Jeff would say no. Not to a trip to California; not to a chance to start over, someplace new and exciting and different; not to Richie. “Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna worry, though.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m fifteen,” she whines and yep, there she is, his baby sister who can’t even cook eggs without them burning. Jeff grins, reaching up to press the end button on the smoke detector. It’s the only one in the apartment that works, or he would have just turned it off entirely.

She looks guilty, throwing the pan into the sink and opening the cupboard drawer next to the landline. “I have every take-out menu in the neighborhood,” she promises.

He laughs. “You’ll be the size of a house next time I see you.”

“Livin’ large,” she jokes and it surprises a real laugh out of him, deep and giddy, and he bends over, hands on his knees.

“Gonna miss you, peanut.” He pulls her into a quick hug when he can breath again.

“You’re a dork.” But, she squeezes him back.

“Yeah, yeah.” He pulls back, eyes wet with laughter.

She grins. “Wouldn’t say no to a cell phone, though. Just in case, you know, I miss you or something.”

“Sure, sure.” Jeff makes a mental note to pick her up one of those pay-as-you-go ones at the drug store next time he’s out. “You only miss me for my money.”

She rolls her eyes and pulls out the pizza menu.

***

Richie’s standing on his porch when Jeff drives up. Arnold’s sitting at his feet, next to his hockey bag, and he has a duffle slung across his shoulder. That’s all he has. It’s more than Jeff does. 

Jeff really doesn’t like driving so he gets out, tosses the keys to Richie, and gets in the passenger seat. It gives him time to watch as Philadelphia gets smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, the farms and rural towns of rural Pennsylvania ahead of them. He doesn’t feel a tug; besides Christine and their friends, the only thing that ever mattered about Philadelphia is sitting beside him.

“Nostalgic?” Richie asks.

“Nah,” Jeff shakes his head. “You?”

“Fuck no.” Richie says it so quickly, so definitively, and Jeff laughs. Richie smiles a little ruefully. “Everything that matters is ahead of us, yeah?” 

Richie, because he’s an organized asshole, has printed out a packet of ‘sights to see on Route 66’ and he puts Jeff in charge of figuring out where they’re going and what they’re seeing. Jeff’s never been one for maps, or folding, or squinting at road signs, but his phone has a map app and he mostly just uses that.

“We’re on a road trip,” Richie bitches, the first time he catches Jeff at it.

Jeff just shrugs. “Practical.”

Richie rolls his eyes. “Not cool.”

“Unless you wanna end up in Mexico City,” Jeff waves his phone in Richie’s direction. Between the seats, Arnold raises his head, following the lights of the map app with his eyes. Jeff drops his phone into the cup holder between their seats and scratches at Arnold’s head. “Arnold agrees.”

“Whatever.” But Richie’s smiling, just a little, and he takes his right hand off the wheel to pat Arnold’s head, his fingers brushing with Jeff’s.

They get to the edge of Pennsylvania on the first day, stopping at a motel a few miles south of Pittsburgh and east of the Ohio border. It’s one of those cheap, side-of-the-road places that allows dogs but definitely does not have a weight room. So, they dress in shorts and t-shirts and take Arnie on a dusky five-mile run through rural Pennsylvania.

The dog’s not the only one exhausted by the end, and Richie downs an entire water bottle before he falls onto his bed. Jeff kicks at the bottom of his sneaker, ignoring the strip of skin showing over the edge of Richie’s shorts. “Tired, old man?”

Richie grunts, waving Jeff away.

“Training camp’s in a week,” Jeff reminds him, mainly to be an asshole.

Richie takes it to heart, though, rolling over and fishing a notebook out of his bag. He shoves it into Jeff’s chest. “Keep me honest.”

It’s a series of crunches, push-ups, squats, and lunges. Jeff makes a face at it.

“Just until I have a conditioning coach,” Richie promises.

“I expect compensation for this. A cut of all future royalties.” 

“Who else will I share my money with?” Richie shrugs, then turns his best Captain glare on Jeff. “Count.”

Jeff rolls his eyes, but he starts counting Richie’s crunches. He falls asleep around about number 300.

***

The next day they make it to Indianapolis, or, a small motel in rural Indiana just past Indianapolis. They run again, chasing the sunset back to their motel, where Richie does another series of strength exercises while Jeff picks them up a pizza and a bucket of wings.

“Won’t it be nice when we can eat steak every day?” Richie asks, halfway through the wings.

Jeff shrugs. “I’d miss pizza.”

“We’ll still eat pizza.” Richie promises. “It’ll just have expensive shit on it.”

Jeff wrinkles his nose. “Like anchovies?”

“No, like,” Richie shrugs. “I don’t know, caviar or shrimp or something.”

“Huh.” Jeff thinks about it for a moment. “I could do with a good steak and onions pizza.”

“Me too.”

They call it an early night, with hopes of picking up Route 66 in St. Louis the next morning. Even after their run, though, Jeff’s not really that tired, still keyed up from the drive. He waits until he’s pretty sure both Richie and Arnold are asleep before he slips his hand into his boxers.

Jeff’s been half-hard since they left Philadelphia. Over the last few years, he’s gotten pretty good at ignoring Richie and the inconvenient, impossible feelings Jeff gets in the pit of his stomach every time Richie’s in the room. On the road, though, Richie’s always there, driving next to him, jogging beside him, doing lunges in their hotel room wearing nothing but baggy basketball shorts. Jeff’s best intentions flew out the window round about the time they left Pennsylvania. 

Jeff tightens his fingers around the base of his dick, turning his head to bite into the motel pillow. It tastes like mothballs and dust, but at least he isn’t screaming Richie’s name into the night air.

He closes his eyes, focusing in on the slide of his palm against the underside of his dick. It’s not hard to imagine that it’s Richie’s, playing Jeff the same way he plays hockey, his fingers wrapped around Jeff just like he wraps his hand around the top of his stick, grip firm and strong and reverent. 

When the bed dips behind Jeff, he is so lost in the fantasy that it takes him a long, long moment to sort out his reality from his imagination.

But then Richie’s breath is on the back of his neck, his hand calloused and hard as he pushes Jeff’s away, and Jeff’s eyes fly open. “Wha-?”

“Shh,” Richie murmurs, pushing Jeff’s boxers to his knees and wrapping his fist around Jeff’s cock. “This okay?”

Richie actually sounds unsure of himself, a little skittish and worried, and Jeff groans out, “Yes, please, Richie,” and arches his back, pressing into Richie’s hand, asking for more of something he never thought he could have. 

Richie chuckles, too hot in Jeff’s ear, and then he’s following his breath with his tongue and his teeth, biting down hard enough to leave red, angry marks behind Jeff’s ear. “Sure?” 

If Jeff were able to think, he’d wonder at Richie’s insecurities, but all he can think is he’s wanted this for so long, so, “Yes, asshole, more,” as he jerks, his head falling back against Richie’s shoulder. 

Richie rustles behind him, pushing his own boxers down his legs and then settling his dick along the crease of Jeff’s thighs. He’s hard, wet, warm as he pulses between Jeff’s legs and, instinctively, Jeff draws his thighs together, warmer and tighter around Richie’s dick. It’s so close to everything Jeff wants, and he reaches down to cover the hand Richie has on his hip, urging him to thrust.

“God,” Richie breathes out, sounding just as turned on as Jeff is. For Jeff, always near the edge where Richie’s concerned on a good day, it’s too much.

“I’m gonna-” He warns, moments before he spills across Richie’s fist, his hips stuttering gracelessly as he closes his eyes and tries, valiantly, not to wake up the nice old couple in the next room.

“Jesus, Carts.” Richie gives a few more tugs, before he pulls his hand away and wraps it around Jeff’s other hip, sticky and warm. He pulls until Jeff’s lying face-first into the mattress and settles himself over Jeff’s back, fitting his dick back into the space between Jeff’s thighs. Jeff raises his ass to meet Richie’s thrusts, hard and unyielding, the sounds of flesh on flesh filling the room until Richie’s hips grow fast and erratic. “Jesus, fuck,” Richie bites into Jeff’s shoulder as he comes between Jeff’s legs.

“Shit,” Richie groans, rolling off Jeff’s back and settling at his side, their shoulders still touching.

Jeff turns his head. Richie looks ridiculous, curls plastered to his forehead, chest flushed and blotchy, his arm thrown carelessly over his eyes. Jeff feels want settle with a deep ache in his chest, and he rolls over, onto his side. With his free arm, he reaches out, running a finger up Richie’s knee, the inside of his thigh, his balls and up the vein on the underside of Richie’s dick. Richie shivers, his dick giving a valiant twitch.

“I’m all out tonight,” Richie says, sounding soft and apologetic as he lowers his arm from his eyes and looks at Jeff. “In the morning, yeah?”

“Um,” Jeff hopes, ridiculously, dangerously. “Yeah.”

Richie reaches out, grasps for Jeff’s hand and pulls him until they’re spooned together under the scratchy motel sheets. It takes Jeff a long time to fall asleep.

***

Richie’s true to his word. In the morning they exchange hand jobs in bed, and then again in the shower, before they pile into the car and go in search of Route 66. 

Jeff’s a bit surprised. When he’s imagined this – and he’s man enough to admit that he has thought about this, fuck off – it’s always been in terms of a drunken fuck, a one-off that’s never mentioned again. There’s certainly chemistry there, has been since the day they met, but Jeff figured he’d get it out of his system and then he could move on. To someone else, someone a little more attainable, someone a little less his best friend.

Now, though, Jeff just wants to touch Richie, as often as possible, while they’re on the road, with Philly in their rear window and LA over the horizon. They’re in limbo, out of time and space, just Richie and Carts and Arnold, where everything feels open and new and possible

So, they drive, squinting in the sun, Jeff dozing off periodically, with Arnold’s head on his shoulder, and they don’t talk about it. 

It takes them five hours and more than a few wrong turns, but they pick up the historic road at Ted Drewes Frozen Custard in St. Louis.

“They’ve been around since 1929, in this location since 1941,” Jeff reads from Richie’s packet. “They’re famous for concretes.”

“What are those?”

Jeff shrugs. “No idea. Something to do with custard.”

Concretes turn out to be custard blended with fruit and chocolate and whatever else they want until the ice cream is so thick that Jeff can barely dig his spoon out it. They sit on picnic benches outside, Arnold enjoying a cup of water and the chance to stretch his legs, as Jeff picks at his custard.

“God, this is better than sex,” Richie says around his spoon, then flushes.

Jeff shakes his head, feeling languid and brave in the summer sun. “I’ll have to try harder, then.”

“It’s, um, you don’t have to-” Richie stutters, turning his eyes away from Jeff’s. “It’s been working for me. If that wasn’t, you know, obvious.”

“It was,” Jeff smirks, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.

Richie raises an eyebrow. Jeff doesn’t see it but he can feel it. “Yeah, well, for you, too.”

Jeff shrugs. “I’m pretty easy.” Jeff doesn’t know an eighteen-year-old who isn’t.

They’re quiet for a moment while Jeff feeds Arnold the strawberries from his custard, then Richie says, haltingly, still not meeting Jeff’s eyes. “I can, though. Try harder, I mean.”

Jeff reaches out, touching Richie’s wrist with his fingers and calling it a victory when Richie doesn’t pull away. Richie finally turns his head, squinting in the sun, lines deep around his mouth. He looks so unsure of himself, and Jeff hates it, more than a little bit.

Jeff frowns. “Stop fishing for compliments, desperate isn’t a good look on you.”

Richie shoves him off the bench. 

That night, though, Richie slides down the motel sheets, looking determined and stubborn, like he can tame Jeff’s dick if he just tries hard enough. Which isn’t actually the worst game plan, Jeff figures, as Richie licks his palm and wraps his left hand around the base of Jeff’s erection, twisting his fist in short, tight tugs. Richie licks his lower lip, and Jeff can’t help it, his hips buck, his dick brushing against Richie’s chin and Richie rears back, glaring at Jeff through his ridiculous eyelashes.

“Do you want this or not?”

That’s a stupid question. Jeff reaches down, clamping his hand around the base of his balls to take the edge off. 

“Cartsy, I’m serious-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jeff agrees. “Go ahead.”

Richie glares at him for a long, painful moment, before he just ducks his head and spreads his lips over the head of Jeff’s dick. It’s all Jeff can do not to buck into it, in surprise and pleasure, and he tangles his fingers in the sheets, grounding himself.

Richie’s pretty obviously inexperienced. He’s too sloppy, doesn’t know what to do with his tongue or his teeth, and he’s rubbing his jaw before Jeff is even halfway there, but Richie is enthusiastic and stubborn and he doesn’t give up. 

It’s the best blowjob Jeff’s ever had. And, since losing his virginity at fourteen to Loops’ older sister, Jeff’s had a lot of them. In his car, quickies in his parents’ basement, behind the rink after a particularly good game, but never in a motel, where Jeff can take his time and lose himself in the sensations and be as loud as he wants. And never before with Richie on his knees, eyebrows furrowed, cheeks red and chin wet with sweat and saliva and Jeff’s precome.

“God, Richie,” Jeff groans out, untangling his left hand from the sheets and cupping his palm over Richie’s chin. “Just, a little tighter.” He reaches up, tapping at the edges of Richie’s mouth and, maybe he’s being an asshole, but then Richie sucks in his cheeks and it’s hotter and tighter and wetter and, Jesus, Richie’s always been a quick learner. “Yeah, yeah, like, uh, that’s perfect, right there.” And then he’s tugging at the curls on the back of Richie’s neck and Richie pulls off, finishing Jeff off with his hand.

Jeff struggles to breath, his eyes closed, head buried in his pillow as he feels Richie settle next to him. “Didn’t know your selfishness on the ice carried into the bedroom,” Richie chirps and Jeff takes a deep, painful breath before pinning Richie to the mattress.

“Patience is a virtue,” Jeff promises as he shimmies down Richie’s body. 

He hasn’t done this a lot, maybe three or four times, but he knows enough, and Richie’s already turned on enough, that Jeff’s jaw is barely sore when Richie lets out a series of low, breathy, “Carts, Carts Carts,” and comes down Jeff’s throat before Jeff can pull back.

“Asshole,” Jeff whines, pinching the inside of Richie’s thigh.

“Ow, fuck,” Richie spreads his thighs out of Jeff’s reach. It’s a good look for him. “Sorry, sorry.”

Jeff shrugs, rising up Richie’s body to kiss him, come and spit and all, and Richie frowns, pushing him away. Jeff laughs. “S’okay. I know I’m so good you couldn’t help it.”

“Right. Your mouth is just irresistible.” It’s meant as a chirp, but there’s absolutely no heat behind it, and Jeff laughs again.

“Tell yourself whatever you need to sleep at night.”

Richie stretches, his knees coming up as his back arches, and Jeff has to hightail it to the bathroom before he asks Richie for more than either of them are willing to give yet. He brushes his teeth and takes a piss, before coming back into the room. There’s an awkward moment while Jeff contemplates the other bed, not sure if he’s welcome back in Richie’s bed. 

But, Richie’s on his side, watching Jeff with warm, sleepy eyes. He lifts the edge of the sheets and Jeff, gratefully, slips in beside him. He’ll be here, for as long as Richie will have him.

***

“There’s a drive-in in Carthage. Looks like,” Jeff flips through the papers in his lap, “Terminator 3 is showing tonight.”

“I don’t think I ever saw the second one?”

Jeff shakes his head. “You didn’t.”

“So, what else is there?”

Jeff glances over. Richie’s wearing his sunglasses and a wife-beater, his elbow bent out the open window, and Jeff wants him. “You don’t go to drive-ins for the movie.”

Richie glances over, his sunglasses slipping down his nose and Jeff laughs. “Fuck off,” Richie takes his hand off the wheel to push his sunglasses in place. The car swerves and Jeff laughs, his heart in his throat. 

“Just enjoying the view.”

“What were you saying about drive-ins?”

Jeff shrugs. “There are other things to do at drive-ins. Besides watching the movie.”

“Oh.” Richie flushes and it extends all the way to his shoulders. Or, perhaps that’s the Missouri sun. “Oh.”

***

“The big ball of string was pretty cool.”

Richie stares at him.

Jeff waves him away. “Before Arnie tried to chase it.” Which, actually, was pretty fucking funny, so, Jeff’s calling it a win-win.

“My dog’s embarrassing.”

Between them, Arnold lifts his head from the center console, his ears perked, as if he knows they’re talking about him. Jeff shakes his head. “Only bad things, bud.”

Arnold whines, but lowers his head again.

***

They pull into a gas station somewhere between Tulsa and Oklahoma City. Oklahoma is flat, hot, mind-numbingly boring. 

Jeff climbs out of the car, his knees creaking and aching. He groans, stretching his back and his calves against the car, before heading into the convenience store. He needs to stop eating Twinkies and Red Vines, maybe go for a run. 

He comes out, though, with a bag full of M&Ms and orange sodas, and a vitamin water for Richie, who’s pretending to keep up with his diet. Jeff stops by the door to light a cigarette, taking a slow, relieved puff as he looks out at the car.

Richie’s leaning against the open driver’s door, one hand on the gas pump. He’s wearing shorts low on his hips and a flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, his feet bare and his shirt open, the cut of his ab muscles disappearing into the band of his boxers. His curls are plastered to his forehead and he looks ridiculous, like a California lumberjack, but when he sees Jeff, he grins, wide and awkward and that’s all it takes. That all it ever takes for Jeff.

He stubs out his cigarette, calling Arnold to him and getting the dog into the car before sinking into the passenger seat. Jeff is hard, painfully so, his erection insistent against the zipper of his shorts and he reaches down, adjusting himself.

“You okay?” Richie asks, as he climbs back into the car and pulls out of the station.

“Yeah.” He tosses over a bag of Combos and the vitamin water. “I got you boring snacks.”

“Thanks,” Richie grins, steering the car with his knee and opening the bag of Combos. “You’re so good to me.”

“Uh huh.” Jeff opens the M&Ms and puts them on the center console, so he can pretend not to notice when Richie steals a few. Richie gives him a grateful little sideways grin, and, Jesus, that is not what Jeff needs right now.

Jeff shifts again, reaching to turn on the radio to some country station that seems to be the best Oklahoma has to offer. He spreads his knees, resting his elbow on the edge of the open window and closes his eyes, actively ignoring the way Richie’s off-key singing goes directly to his dick.

They get about five miles before Jeff feels a hand in his lap and he jerks, banging his head against the doorframe. “What?”

Richie’s hand stills. Jeff stares at it. Since that first time, Jeff’s been the one to initiate every one of their sexual escapades.

“You were watching me. At the gas station.”

Richie still hasn’t moved his hand, and it’s not like Jeff can honestly deny it. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” Richie’s fingers clench. “Can I?”

Jeff nods, as if he could say anything but _yes, please, God_ to that. Then he remembers that Richie’s probably looking at the road, and he licks his lips. “Yeah.”

Richie undoes Jeff’s belt, a little more awkward than normal, but he gets the zipper down and pulls Jeff out of his boxers, into the sun and the road. Jeff spreads his knees as far as he can and bucks into Richie’s hand and, Jesus, anyone could see them right now and Richie doesn’t seem to care and that- that does it for him. Really does it for him.

“Fuck, Richie, this is-”

“Sorry,” Richie apologizes. “The angle-” He sounds frustrated and then he’s pulling to the side of Route 66, on a four lane road in the middle of Oklahoma, and climbing over the center console to settle over Jeff’s thighs.

“Mike,” Jeff groans, grasping at Richie’s hips and pulling him down and forward, into a kiss, hot and wet and Jeff has never been this turned on before. He gets a hand between them and, “oh god,” Richie’s just as hard as he is.

“Yeah,” Richie admits, embarrassed and quiet, as he drops his mouth to Jeff’s collarbone and bites a quick, deep bruise into Jeff’s pale skin. “Let’s make this fast, yeah?”

“Not gonna be a problem,” Jeff promises, getting his palm around both their dicks. Richie keens, pressing his bare chest against Jeff’s t-shirt, catching himself on the edge of Jeff’s seat. It’s awkward, too many knees and elbows and the space too small for two teenage hockey players. Jeff’s hand is slick between them, though, wet with sweat and precome, smooth and fast and rhythmic.

Richi’s thighs are shaking, pressed tight and sticky against Jeff’s knees. Jeff can tell that he’s close, and he presses his thumb under the head of Richie’s dick and Richie bites down on the shell of Jeff’s ear as he shakes out his orgasm. Jeff works Richie through it, then wraps his hand tightly around his own dick, firm and covered in Richie’s come and it takes no more than four pumps before he’s coming between them, covering Richie’s shorts and his bare stomach.

“Jesus,” Richie breathes, staring down at his shorts. “I can’t believe we did that.”

“It was good, though.”

Richie smiles. “It was.” He shifts, his skin hot and clammy as he clumsily moves back into his own seat. “Give me your shirt.” 

“What?”

Richie holds out his hand and Jeff sighs, but leans away from his seat to peel his t-shirt off and hand it to Richie, who promptly uses it to wipe away the come from his chest and shorts.

“Hey,” Jeff complains. “I was wearing that.”

Richie shrugs.

Jeff stares at him. Richie is such an asshole.

“I didn’t wanna get pulled over like that,” Richie finally explains, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “End up on Deadspin or Twitter or some shit.” 

Jeff shakes his head. “Would have made a good story, though. Get you started on the right foot with the press.”

Richie laughs, dorky and loud, and despite still coming down, Jeff wants. “Oklahoma City?” He asks, instead.

“Home of the Thunder.” Richie says, turning to look at traffic before pulling back onto the road.

“I hate basketball,” Jeff tells him, on principle.

Richie rolls his eyes. “That’s just because you suck at it. Don’t blame the sport for that.”

“That why you play hockey, then?”

It surprises another laugh out of Richie and Jeff grins, settling back in his seat and closing his eyes again. This time he falls asleep almost instantly.

***

They spend a day off in Amarillo. Mostly because they need a day out of the car, but partly because they want to add their signatures to the row of 10 rusty Cadillacs buried nose-down on the outskirts of town.

They arrive at the Cadillacs about midafternoon, armed with a cooler full of beers and a Philly-orange can of spray paint. “What do you wanna say?” Jeff asks, wandering through the cars and reading through the names and hearts and statements of peace and war, and more than a few Grateful Dead stickers.

“We should have brought a Flyers sticker,” Jeff adds, running his finger over a smaller ‘I heart hamburgers’ statement.

“Kings,” Richie corrects and, right, Jeff’s gonna have to stop saying that. The only thing the Flyers ever gave them were hangovers and heart ache, and the Kings are so much more real, they _want_ Richie, and, really, that’s all that matters to Jeff.

“Right.” Jeff agrees. “Here,” he holds out his hand for the can. Richie hands it over, standing close to Jeff, one hand on Jeff’s waist to steady himself, as Jeff shakes the bottle and draws out a messy crown.

Richie looks at it for a long moment, before he takes the can from Jeff and adds, ‘C + R Hockey Players’ in big, bold, dripping letters, like an epitaph. Jeff supposes, in a way, it is.

They head back into town and drink their way through half of Amarillo. They end up at a bar, wearing borrowed cowboy hats and learning how to line dance, badly. It’s pretty embarrassing, but Jeff hasn’t been on a run in a few days and he’s kind of enjoying the pull of his thigh muscles and the sweat pooling at the nape of his neck.

Next to him, Richie’s clapping his hands off-beat, his hat tipped dangerously off the back of his head so his curls are wild underneath it, his mouth open and dorky. He looks over at Jeff, laughing as he tips his hat, and Jeff raises an eyebrow. “What? You want me to put money in there?”

“Nah,” Richie grins. “I know what’s in your pockets.”

Jeff can’t argue with that. His two years of McDonald’s savings are getting dangerously thin.

Richie just shrugs, taking Jeff’s silence for assent, and settles the hat back on his head. “No worries. When I make it big half of all I own will be yours, anyway.”

Jeff’s heart leaps. Mike doesn’t – can’t – mean that in the way Jeff wants, but he means it, none-the-less. Maybe that’s enough. 

Jeff’s gotten pretty good at lying to himself over the years, but not now, not about this. Not for long, anyway. And not when he’s spent a week learning, explicitly, what owning Richie’s dick can be like. 

Later, after a few more songs and a re-hydration break, Jeff returns to their table, beers and waters in hand, to find Richie surrounded by a number of good, blond, Southern cowgirls. They’re pretty, especially the one straddling Richie’s thighs, her smile wide. “Northerner, huh? How do you like Southern hospitality so far?”

Jeff snorts, hiding himself in his beer.

Richie grins at him. “Ahh, I don’t know. It’s nice, but,” he catches Jeff’s eye, “we’re Philly boys, through and through.”

Jeff’s always kind of assumed that he’s in love with Richie. It’s a whole other thing to have proof and, fuck, he is so screwed.

But, then Richie’s pushing the girl away, wrapping his hand around Jeff’s elbow and pulling him out of the bar. The air is humid, sticky and warm as it hits Jeff’s skin, and Richie pulls them in the direction Jeff thinks their motel is in.

“She was hot,” Jeff tries, because he hates himself.

Richie shrugs. “I guess.”

“So,” Jeff swallows. His tongue is sticky; he blames it on the beer. “Did you mean it? About being Philly boys?” _together_ , he doesn’t add.

“Maybe LA boys now, huh?” Richie smiles. Jeff can still hear the _together_ at the end of the sentence. It’s more than satisfying, but then Richie adds, “come on, I wanna blow you,” and Jeff’s never going to argue with that.

***

They don’t talk about it much, but as they get closer to California, Jeff’s starting to feel the pressure. As much as they joke around about Jeff being a kept boy, that’s not something Jeff is honestly comfortable with. He’s always had a job, always had responsibilities to himself and his sister and his mother, and as nice as a weeklong road trip away from his worries is, he’s not sure he can do it indefinitely.

“You okay?” Mike asks, glancing under his sunglasses at Jeff.

“Sure,” Jeff says, easily, telling himself to stop worrying and enjoy their second-to-last day on the road. Arizona is warm, sunny, quiet, and Jeff rests his bare feet on the dashboard. He can feel Richie beside him, hear him singing along to the radio, and he can feel Arnold’s short, sleepy breaths on the center console. He feels safe, if only for one more day, and he allows himself to drift off.

They stop in Flagstaff that night, stretching and piling into their last crappy motel. Richie goes for a run, “gotta work off the beer calories before I drink them,” while Jeff cleans out the car and throws the ball a bit for Arnold. 

They head to a bar, leaving Arnold at the motel. It’s a local place, small and noisy and playing the Diamondbacks game which Jeff doesn’t really have a stake in, but he decides to be an asshole and root for the Cubs anyway. The ratio of clientele tilts strongly to blond women, just Richie’s type, but Richie sticks pretty close to Jeff the whole night.

“Richie.”

“What?” Richie asks, taking a step back, but his shoulder is still touching Jeff’s. He looks nervous, his eyes a little wide and scared, probably thinking about tomorrow and LA and training camp, and Jeff just shakes his head. He pushes his half-finished beer over and Richie takes it with a grateful little smile.

“Yay,” Jeff crows, as the Cubs hit a second homerun. 

Next to him, a guy, visibly larger and stronger than Jeff, grunts. “Faggots.”

“What’d you say?” Jeff asks, because he’s a little drunk and a little on edge, and if he can’t fight with Richie, this Diamondbacks fan will do.

“Why don’t you take your boy toy and watch in another bar? Cubs fans aren’t welcome here.” 

Good, this guy isn’t backing down, either.

Jeff shrugs, raising his eyebrow suggestively. “Don’t worry, my tastes run a little,” he eyes the guy up and down, “more towards winners. You don’t fit the bill.”

Jeff sees it coming, but he doesn’t move fast enough to avoid the punch. The guy is strong, and the left side of Jeff’s face goes numb instantly. “Fuck,” Jeff groans, but before he can get a punch in, Richie’s pulling him off his bar stool and away, into the humid Arizona air.

“Fuck,” Jeff repeats, leaning over onto his knees as the feeling starts to come back in long, pulsing waves of pain.

“Jesus, Carts.” Richie’s hard is sweaty on his back. Jeff can’t open his eyes to see him, but he knows that Richie’s rubbing his other hand over his brow in that way he does when he’s angry and excited and doesn’t really know which to feel. “What were you thinking?”

 _Self-destructive_ his mother used to call it, when talking about why his father left. Jeff shakes his head. “He was an asshole.”

“Well, yeah,” Richie agrees, as if that wasn’t ever in question. “But-”

“Can we get out of here?” Jeff asks, knowing that this isn’t over. But, he’d really rather have this fight somewhere else, away from the bar, in the relative sanctuary of their motel room.

Richie makes a beeline for the ice machine when they get back and then manhandles Jeff into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. He wraps a handful of ice in a towel from the bathroom and presses it to Jeff’s eye before saying, quietly, his throat thick with alcohol and some emotion Jeff can’t quite place, “That was a stupid thing to do.”

Jeff shrugs. “I’ll recover.”

“Not-” Frustration Jeff can place. “Not what I mean, Cartsy.” 

Jeff shrugs, dislodging Richie’s hand and Richie swears, rising higher onto his knees and pressing harder into the sore skin and bones of Jeff’s face. It hurts, but it’s countered with the sight of Richie on his knees in front of him, and Jeff can’t really help the fact that his dick notices, too.

“Is this because of LA?”

“No.” Jeff says quickly, flexing his knees and bringing them closer to Richie’s shoulders. “Maybe. It’s a lot of change, you know?”

“Yeah,” Richie says, quietly. “Not the important stuff though, yeah?”

“Sure,” Jeff agrees, even though he’s not so sure about that. _Us_ , Jeff wants to say, _I’m worried about whatever there is between us_ , but he’s not even sure that ‘us’ is on Richie’s list of important shit.

“We’re good?” Richie asks. Jeff nods. “No more fighting body builders?” He clarifies.

“I could’ve taken him.”

Richie laughs. “You really couldn’t have.” He lifts up on his knees, shifting his hold on the towel and it sends a stab of pain directly to Jeff’s dick. Richie freezes. “Are you- does this,” he presses harder, “turn you on?”

Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the impending end to whatever it is they’ve created out here on the road, but Jeff presses forward, into Richie’s hand and swallows thickly. “Yeah.”

“Jesus, Jeff, that’s-” Richie shakes his head, but he shifts on his knees and Jeff can see the bulge in his shorts. “That’s fucking hot.”

Jeff lets out a short puff of laughter, spreading his knees and arching his hips towards Richie’s chest. “I’ll tell you if it’s too much,” because he knows Richie and he knows that Richie’s a worrier.

“Okay, okay,” Richie shifts, again, bringing the ice up to Jeff’s eye and pressing, ever-so-slightly harder than he normally would, before getting up on his knees and tracing a finger along the bruise on Jeff’s jaw. Jeff jerks, his hips thrusting upwards, and Richie steels himself, before pressing his index finger, gently, into the bone.

“Fuck, yes,” Jeff groans, dropping his hand to his lap and pulling his dick out of his boxers. He’s already leaking, and he gathers precome from his tip before wrapping his fist around himself. 

Richie smiles, just a little, small smile to himself, but then he’s all over Jeff’s face. He doesn’t do anything hard, nothing too painful, just tantalizing, feathery-light touches that ghost across Jeff’s skin and send wave after wave of sensation from the bruises to his dick. Richie circles the same spots, over and over again, tracing the ridge of Jeff’s eyebrow, his jaw, the corner of his eye, as if memorizing Jeff’s skin, already starting to yellow and sting.

When Jeff looks down, he sees that Richie’s pressing his palm between his legs, staving off his own erection, getting pleasure from this, from the focus Richie’s zoning in on Jeff’s body. It’s enough, it’s always enough with Richie, and Jeff feels it gathering in his balls before he comes and he feels it, his skin shaking and sweating, over the bruises.

He doesn’t give himself long to recover before he pulls Richie up, onto the bed, and settles himself between Richie’s thighs. “You liked that,” he accuses, his voice deep and rough, and Richie’s hips jerk as Jeff slips his shorts and boxers off.

“So did you,” Richie argues, which isn’t a ‘no.’

“Ah huh,” Jeff hums, licking his lips and sliding over Richie’s dick in one go. If this is their last night on the road, he’s going to take advantage of it.

Jeff loosens his throat, allowing Richie in as far as he can go, ignoring the ache in his jaw and his eye. Richie’s hot and warm, his thighs sweaty under Jeff’s hands and Jeff brings his hand up to cup Richie’s balls and press back, into the sensitive strip of skin behind. Richie moans, his hips thrusting off the bed, and Jeff pulls back, just a little, to look at Richie, flushed and aroused, limbs taught with arousal as he struggles, fruitlessly, to keep himself steady.

 _I love you,_ Jeff wants to say. _I want this, in LA, in Philly, wherever you’ll have me._ He doesn’t say either, though, because Richie’s going to LA to try out for the _NHL_ and that’s the most amazing, brilliant, crazy thing that’s every happened for Richie. Jeff can’t do anything to jeopardize that, and he can’t do anything that might jeopardize his place in Richie’s life, even if Jeff has to settle for being Richie’s friend. It’s just unfortunate that, for Jeff, the most amazing, brilliant, crazy thing to ever happen to him is Richie.

Richie’s hips arch off the bed, and Jeff wraps his fist around Richie’s dick, thrusting in a quick, steady rhythm as he reaches back, fast enough that Richie can’t protest, and slips a finger, slick and warm, into Richie’s hole. They haven’t done this yet, haven’t moved past hands and mouths and dicks, and Richie is tight and warm, his muscles fluttering around Jeff’s finger. Richie’s whole body tenses, his eyes wide as he peers down at Jeff, and then Jeff presses forward, crooking his finger against Richie’s prostate and Richie’s entire body jerks as he gives out a low whine and comes on Jeff’s fist, his mouth, his arm.

“Fuck, Jeff, just-” Jeff removes his finger and moves up the bed, wrapping himself around Richie’s body. “I should kick your ass.”

Jeff chuckles. “Didn’t see you complaining.”

“Huh.” Richie frowns, as if he’s actually thinking about it, about Jeff’s finger in his ass, about what else Jeff might put there. He settles on, “yeah,” which is pretty unhelpful. 

They lie, silently, for a long time, listening to their breathing and Arnold’s snoring, until Richie, finally, whispers, “tomorrow night we’ll be in LA.”

Jeff can’t tell if he sounds happy about it or not.

***

“Should have iced it longer,” Richie tells him, frowning critically at the deep purple bruises on Jeff’s left eye and jaw. 

“Yeah, well,” Jeff can feel himself flush. “We got distracted.”

Richie laughs, poking at his eggs. “Can’t let that happen, when we’re in LA.”

“What, get distracted?” Jeff forces his voice lighter than he feels.

Richie glares at him. “Forget to ice bruises. Don’t want them piling up. 82 games is a long season.”

Jeff’s stomach unclenches. “Awfully confident, big guy,” he teases.

“Yeah, well,” Richie frowns. Jeff wants to kick himself, because as unsure and worried as he’s feeling, he knows that Richie has to be feeling it so much worse. “What else am I gonna do, right? I’ve kinda put everything I’ve got into this.”

Jeff shrugs. “Me too.” He means it as a vote of confidence, but Richie just freezes, starring at his plate.

“Jeff, if I don’t- If this doesn’t-” 

Jeff has never seen Richie like this before, and he rushes to assure him. “Not gonna happen.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Richie dismisses him, too quickly.

“Okay then.” Jeff forces himself to eat a bite of his waffle. His jaw aches.

Richie stares at him, for a long moment, then nods, as if this conversation is over. “Okay.”

“Good.” Jeff, pointedly, doesn’t allow himself to think about what will happen to him if Mike makes it. He definitely doesn’t allow himself to wonder what will happen to him if Mike doesn’t.

***

They pull into Los Angeles as the sun is setting on a Tuesday. The Kings have Richie booked into the Hyatt downtown, and Jeff feels out of place in his flip-flops, t-shirt, and purpling bruises until the woman at the front desk nods knowingly at their hockey bags and offers him a smile. She doesn’t look as happily at Arnold, sitting quietly on Jeff’s feet, but doesn’t say anything about it. 

She does, however, continue to give Jeff glares every time he takes Arnold out for a walk over the next few days. Which is often, because Jeff is pretty bored. Richie jumps immediately into rookie camp, spending endless hours at the gym and the rink and, afterwards, bonding with the other rookies at posh downtown bars that Richie can’t possibly afford.

“The boys are just not what I’m used to,” Richie complains the third evening as he toes off his jeans and falls onto the bed, face pressed into Jeff’s thigh. He’s pretty drunk off rounds others bought, and he whines when Jeff tugs at his curls.

“You’ll fit in,” Jeff tells him, even though it’s mostly a lie. Richie’s always been the kind of guy who sticks out from the crowd. It’s one of the things he and Richie have in common. He runs a hand down Richie’s bare back, trailing his spine, to remind himself that, for now, Richie is his.

Richie scoffs. “Fitting in isn’t really one of my strong suits. Stop telling me what I wanna hear.”

Jeff shrugs. He drops his hand below Richie’s boxers, pressing the tip of his index finger lightly against Richie’s asshole. “What? You want me to tell me that you’re an asshole?”

“Yes,” Richie breathes, arching into the touch.

“Okay.” Jeff grins. “You’re a dick.”

Richie grunts, lifting his lips off the bed to press closer to Jeff’s fingers. He crosses his arms against the mattress and rests his forehead on them, using the leverage to push his ass into the air.

“The worst,” Jeff continues. “Don’t know why I put up with you.”

Richie turns his head, looking at Jeff with dark, dilated pupils. “Me neither.”

Jeff stops, just long enough to shift, situating himself on his knees behind Richie. He pulls Richie’s briefs off, and Richie moves with him, lifting one knee, then the other, so that Jeff can get him completely naked. Jeff wets his finger then, very slowly, presses just the tip inside.

Richie keens.

Jeff leans over Richie’s back, to whisper, hot and wet against Richie’s ear. “You’re a total dick. Don’t try to fit in. It’s not what you’re good at. You’re a leader. Lead.” He punctuates his words with quick, shallow thrusts of his finger, and Richie drops his head to his arms, pressing his ass back.

His voice is breathless and muffled by his arms. “Don’t let me forget it, yeah?”

Jeff doesn’t know which part Richie wants to be reminded of, but Richie’s making the most desperate little whimpers and Jeff’s done with this conversation. He leans forward, removing his fingertip and using his hands to spread Richie open, enough for Jeff to dip his tongue inside.

Richie’s still a little drunk, compliant and willing, pressing himself into Jeff’s tongue with an abandon that’s still surprising Jeff, even after a couple weeks of doing this. Jeff runs his tongue along the rim of Richie’s hole, before ducking inside, over and over again in a rhythm that has Richie clenching and coming in a few minutes.

Jeff soothes Richie through it with his tongue in slow, gentle thrusts as he gets his fingers around his belt and pulls himself out. He’s hard, already leaking heavily in his boxers, and it doesn’t take more than another couple minutes of harsh, wet pulls, loud in the quiet hotel room, before he’s rising onto his knees and coming in long, white spurts across Richie’s ass.

“Fuck,” Richie grunts, dropping to the mattress and spreading out, trapping Jeff under his arm.

Jeff chuckles. He’s still not really tired, but he rolls over and turns the light off anyway. Richie has an early morning.

***

It comes as absolutely no surprise to Jeff when Richie gets through rookie camp with a one-year trial contract worth more money than Jeff’s ever heard of. The Kings move them into a small apartment that the ream reserves for rookies. The best part about it is that it accepts dogs, so they don’t have to find some way to sneak Arnold in. Jeff, though, sort of misses the hotel. It feels different, to have an actual apartment, with a bedroom and a kitchen and a living room, rather than the one-room places they’ve been sharing for weeks.

The apartment is just off Manhattan Beach, not far from the place Sean Avery and Mike Cammalleri share. To “keep them out of trouble,” management says, but the first time they go out drinking together, Jeff has to question that logic.

“How many broads can you get to blow you before they kick us out?” Avery asks, mid-swig of beer and wiggling his eyebrows at Richie.

Jeff scowls into his glass. Avery would be the kind of guy Jeff loves, except that he’s an asshole, and more than a little obsessed with getting Richie laid. Next to him, though, Richie just laughs, awkwardly, and drops his hand to the bench, fingertips tapping against Jeff’s thigh. “You’re an asshole.”

Avery shrugs. “Just looking out for your best interests, rookie.”

When Richie blows Jeff up against their front door later, Jeff forgets all about Avery and the stupid bet.

***

Jeff doesn’t really know how Richie’s adjusting to the life of an NHL rookie. He doesn’t talk about it, but he looks exhausted when he comes back from training every afternoon. Every time Jeff asks, though, Richie wraps a hand around Jeff’s neck and breathes into his mouth.

“You know what’ll make me forget?” And Jeff doesn’t know if Richie means his sore muscles or his new teammates or the strangeness of getting everything he’s ever dreamed about, but he does know what Richie’s getting at.

Jeff shuffles on his knees, drawing Richie into his mouth and getting him off, quick and messy. When Richie comes, his knees shaking around Jeff’s head, his hands clutching for Jeff’s hair, and kissing him, soft and sleepy, Jeff forgets that, half the time, he has to jerk himself off before he can join Richie in his nap.

Richie, at least, is pretty good about inviting Jeff to pick-up games and nights out. The guys don’t ask why Jeff’s always trailing after Richie, although by the second week of training camp, they do start throwing Jeff strange looks, dropping hints, and trying to draw him into dangerous, revealing conversations. Or, maybe Jeff’s just a little on edge. 

“So, you grew up with Richie, huh?” Trent Klatt asks, coming to stand next to Jeff on the sidelines of an impromptu pick-up game on the road outside Avery’s apartment.

Jeff surveys Klatt, but he seems like a nice enough guy, and scores a lot, so, “Yeah.” Jeff admits. “We’re from the same neighborhood.”

“In North Philly, right?” Jeff nods. Klatt still just looks curious, not like he’s trying to trap Jeff into any sort of admission. “What was that like?”

Jeff shrugs. “Different. But, it was alright.”

“Huh.” The ball comes rolling their way, and Klatt stops it with the toe of his foot, but kicks it back into the game rather than joining the guys. “And you moved to LA with him?”

“Yeah.” Jeff turns his eyes, watching Richie catch a pass from Avery and get it past Huet. “I didn’t have anything holding me there.” He doesn’t admit that he’s not sure what’s holding him in LA, either. 

***

Jeff opens Richie’s first paycheck before he realizes what it is. He has to actually count the zeros, before he starts imagining the things he can _do_ with that kind of money. Like, buy the whole city of LA a shot or put a down payment on a house for his mother or send his sister to college. When Richie gets home, though, he just glances at it.

“Guess I’m buying a few rounds tonight.”

“Too right, asshole,” Jeff shoves his shoulder and follows him out the door. 

The next day, though, Richie comes home with two black boxes, grinning as he hands one over. “It’s a watch. All the guys are wearing them.”

Jeff stares at it. “It’s too much.” He can see the price tag. It makes his stomach churn.

Richie shrugs, reaching for the watch and slipping it onto Jeff’s wrist. “Price of fitting in, yeah?”

Jeff shrugs. Richie isn’t supposed to be fitting in. Jeff remembers that conversation so clearly, and the rimming that followed it. Jeff’s half hard, and he wants to argue that Richie should be focusing on leading, scoring goals, laying down some big hits, making sure that this will last. For them. Jeff eyes the watch uncomfortably. “I don’t really need to fit in.”

Richie rolls his eyes. “Don’t be an idiot.”

Jeff, honestly, doesn’t know which one of them is the idiot these days.

***

The arguments start a week into the regular season, when Richie comes home early for a pre-game nap to find an application for Burger King on the kitchen counter. “What’s this?”

Jeff’s half-asleep, wrapped up with Arnold on the couch, but he raises his head to squint at the application. “Shit, I meant to turn that in this afternoon.”

“Why?”

Jeff pushes Arnie off the couch and joins Richie in the kitchen, still rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “I figured my McDonald’s experience would translate pretty well.”

Richie glares at the application. “I thought coming to LA was a fresh start.”

“Yeah, it is, but, I still need a job. We can’t all be instant NHL superstars.” Jeff waggles his eyebrows; he’s seen the fan pages about Richie. Richie, though, flinches, and Jeff frowns. “I don’t mind it. It’s good, honest work.”

“I kind of thought-” Richie’s biting his lip, refusing to look at Jeff. That’s never a good sign. “I don’t know, that you’d go to school or something.”

Jeff laughs. “School’s expensive, Richie.”

“I know that.” Richie scowls. “I’m making plenty now.”

Which, Jeff’s all too aware of that, every time he looks at the stupid watch on his wrist or sees the new Jeep pull into the driveway. “I couldn’t do that.”

“I’m not making all this money for me. What the fuck am I gonna do with it all?”

“Buy the team a steak dinner?”

“Did that already.” Richie’s nose crinkles. “I lost the blind draw in Phoenix on Tuesday.”

“Sucks, man.” Jeff sympathizes, reaching for his application. Richie hands it over, reluctantly.

“Just-” He looks profoundly uncomfortable, and Jeff’s hackles rise. “Just promise me you won’t do this forever.”

 _As if I’ll have a choice_ , Jeff thinks, but the fight seems to be over, so he just nods. He drops the application off the next morning and starts on Monday.

***

The second argument comes a few weeks later, when Richie comes back from a four-day road trip with a bag full of laundry that he dumps on the floor by the washing machine before falling right into bed. Arnold looks as pissed off as Jeff feels at the lack of attention, so Jeff decides to burn some energy by taking Arnie for a walk on the beach.

It’s late October, but it’s still warm in LA, so Jeff’s in bare feet and board shorts, squinting into the sun when a familiar figure starts waving at him. “Hey, Carts, right?” Avery asks, as if Jeff hasn’t spent multiple nights passed out on his couch.

“Ahh, yeah. Hey.” Jeff stops next to Avery and throws Arnold’s ball into the ocean. 

Avery’s nose curls. “Your dog’s gonna smell like wet dog.”

“We live by the beach,” Jeff reasons. Then, because he isn’t thinking, “and he’s Richie’s dog.”

Avery raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “Always knew there was some reason Richie kept you around.”

“Cause I walk the dog, yeah,” Jeff bites out sarcastically. Arnold drops the ball at his feet, his tale wagging against Jeff’s legs. It’s not helping his cause.

Avery just laughs. “If I didn’t know exactly what Richie gets up to on the road, I’d think it was something else, but-” Avery shrugs. 

That isn’t, exactly, unexpected information, but Jeff isn’t prepared for how much it hurts. He forces a small smile. “I should get Arnold home.”

Avery shrugs. “Sure. Come around some time, yeah? The guys have been asking for you.” Which is nice to hear, if it’s even true, but Jeff’s suddenly too tired to do anything but wave as he calls Arnold to his side and heads home. 

Richie finds him, an hour or so later, in the laundry room. Jeff has a thong between his fingers, pink and lacey and tiny, pulled from Richie’s laundry. Richie stares at it.

“I- Ahh- It’s not what it looks like.” Richie’s voice is rough, thick with sleep, and Jeff hates the way his dick reacts to it.

“It’s not a big deal.” Jeff swallows, balling the thong into his fist and throwing it into the washing machine. “Good for you.”

“Carts-”

Jeff doesn’t wanna hear it. Doesn’t want to hear Richie trip over his tongue to try and explain it. “How was the trip?”

“Two assists,” Richie says, slowly, his eyes still trained on Jeff’s now-empty hands. “But, you already knew that.”

Jeff nods. He watches every away game, live texts Richie all the shit he screws up on.

Richie sighs. “The guys, you know? They were starting to get suspicious, so I just- Once, I picked up once. So they’d stop asking questions.”

“Right.” Jeff nods, forcing himself to move. He grabs the soap, dumping it into the washing machine. “I get it.”

Richie leans his hip against the dryer, all earnestness and nervous energy. “Do you?”

“Sure.” And Jeff does, he really does. Richie’s living the life he always dreamed about, and Jeff would never, ever get in the way of that. He sighs. “Of course I do.”

“Good, because,” he bites his lip, grabbing for Jeff’s wrist. “I don’t want to stop this, okay?”

“Sure,” Jeff repeats. He groans as Richie lifts him onto the washing machine and drops his head between Jeff’s legs. 

Jeff tightens his fingers in Richie’s hair, pulling hard enough that Richie won’t be able to forget this in the morning. It’s a little more desperate and a lot quieter than usual, the air filled with moans and groans and the wet sound of Richie’s lips around his dick. 

When he comes, he breathes out Richie’s name and pulls Richie to him, getting a dry hand around Richie’s dick. It’s fast and dirty, and when Richie comes, he just lets out a deep, low puff of breath into Jeff’s shoulder. Jeff can’t help wondering if Richie’s thinking about the girl in the thong.

***

Jeff isn’t really able to forget about his conversation with Avery, but he is able to distract himself over the next month or so. He doesn’t ask what happens on the road, and Richie flirts with women at home, but always ends up going home with Jeff at the end of the night. It’s not perfect, it’s not even really good, but it’s better than Jeff’s ever had, so he doesn’t complain too much.

In early November, he gets a desperate call from his sister. She’s sobbing into the phone, speaking in broken, unintelligible hiccups, and Richie books him on the next flight out to Philadelphia. Jeff’s never flown before, but Richie packs him some Dramamine, so he makes it okay.

“I’m sorry,” Christine cries, throwing herself into his arms the minute the taxi drops him off at his old porch. It’s strange, being back here. Philly doesn’t feel like home, anymore.

Christine’s pregnant. She’s fifteen, barely knows the guy, desperate not to end up a single mother like their mother. Jeff books her into an abortion clinic, pawns his watch to pay for it, and spends two days nursing her through the procedure and the depression, before heading back to LA.

He stops on their doorstep for a moment, taking a deep breath. If Philly doesn’t feel like home anymore, LA doesn’t really feel like home yet, either. 

On the other side of the door, though, he can hear Arnold’s excited barking, and he smiles as he turns his key and opens the door. He drops his bag, squatting down immediately and burying his head in Arnold’s neck. “Hey, buddy. Missed you, too.”

It’s strange that Richie isn’t there to greet him, so Jeff gives Arnold a last pat and stretches his knees, heading into the condo to find Richie. “Hey,” he says, when he finds Richie on the couch in the living room, staring straight ahead.

“Hi,” Richie responds, tonelessly.

“Ahh,” Jeff falls into the armchair. This is weird, even for Richie. “Everything okay?”

Richie’s silent for a long moment, then pushes a small, clear bag in Jeff’s direction. “I found this.”

It’s the 8 ball of coke that Jeff’s been harboring in his bedside table. He’s had it since October, when Simon Gagne traded it for a few extra shifts Jeff had picked up. Jeff hasn’t done more than a line or two on nights when Richie’s been on the road.

“Did you go through my stuff?” Because it was definitely buried under condoms and un-cashed paychecks and his cell phone charger and all the other crap he keeps in that bedside table.

Richie, at least, looks a little guilty. “I was looking for that shirt you borrowed last week.”

“In my bedside table?”

“Carts.”

That’s Richie’s Captain’s voice and, fuck him, Jeff is jet lagged and emotionally strung out. He was looking forward to a nap and some sleepy hand jobs, maybe a protein shake, not this crap. And it’s not like it’s a big deal. “It’s just some coke.”

Richie rubs his palm over his face. “It’s not. Not anymore. I _can’t_ be found with hard drugs, not now.”

“Good thing it’s not yours, then.” He wasn’t really planning on sharing, anyway.

“But, you live here.” Richie drops his hand, resting his elbows on his knees. He looks tired. “What you do reflects on me, Cartsy.”

Jeff snorts, angry, tired, and so done with this. “Fuck you.” He grabs his bag, halfway out of the room before he turns. “My sister’s doing better. Thanks for asking.”

He leaves before he has to see Richie’s response on his face.

***

Jeff’s pretty used to the arguments by mid-November. He’s started to expect the fights that Richie picks; the way he barely looks at Jeff even though they live in the same condo; the slow, deliberate loss of contact while Richie’s on the road.

It’s been weeks since Richie’s invited him out with the team, but when Avery sees him watching Arnold and invites him out again, Jeff takes him up on it.

“It’s fine,” Richie tells him, later, as they’re getting ready to leave, as if Jeff needs his permission to go out.

Jeff stuffs his phone in his pocket and grabs the door before it can close on him. “I know it’s fine.”

Richie doesn’t answer and when they reach the bar, he takes the empty seat between Cammalleri and Klatt, leaving Jeff to take the end seat next to Avery. He drinks. Avery’s buying, and Avery’s still an asshole, so Jeff figures he should take advantage. Richie’s matching him shot for shot, throwing him these sad, pleading little looks that Jeff just doesn’t understand.

He takes another shot.

She’s just Jeff’s type, tall and blond and can walk beautifully in her four-inch heels. She is not, really, Richie’s type, but he doesn’t complain when she pulls his seat out and straddles his thighs. Richie glances at Jeff, catches his eye for a long moment, then looks away, squirrely, and pushes out of his chair, grabbing the girl’s hand.

Jeff waits a long time, until the table breaks up and Jeff has no reason to stay. He heads home, fruitlessly, desperately, sadly, hoping that Richie didn’t actually take her home, that Richie took her outside, caught her a cab and is waiting for Jeff, splayed out on his bed and waiting. Those hopes are dashed the moment Jeff opens the front door and hears them, loud and drunk and laughing.

Jeff is so fucked up. He’s losing the man he loves, right in front of his ears, and he’s still getting hard. He can hear them even through his bedroom door, the way her voice hitches, the way their skin slides together, the squeak of Richie’s bed in the same rhythm Richie sets between Jeff’s thighs. Jeff is painfully hard, leaking into his jeans, and he reaches down, slipping a hand into his boxers and jerking himself. He comes as Richie lets out a low, desperate groan.

Jeff rolls over, clutching a pillow to his chest and trying, desperately, to tune out the sounds of their cuddling. He misses Philly, misses Christine and Loops and Uppie and Hartsy. He misses Richie.

***

Jeff moves out three days later. Richie doesn’t ask him to stay.

Gagne’s been looking for another roommate for weeks, so Jeff takes him up on it and moves into the first-floor bedroom in a six-bedroom house. It’s kind of falling apart, pretty old, and definitely isn’t anywhere near the beach, but it’s a roof and a bed and there’s always beer in the fridge.

Life in LA isn’t all that different from life in Philly, and Jeff falls back into the rhythms pretty easily. He picks up extra shifts, drinks when he isn’t working, and smokes a few joints and takes a few hits whenever Gagne offers them. It’s pretty much a warmer, more depressing, Christine-less version of his life pre-Richie. Except, this time, he knows exactly what he’s missing out on.

Jeff’s like sucks. He doesn’t really bother pretending otherwise.

So, he mopes. And tries not to think about Richie and their ten days on the road.

Richie does try to contact him a couple of times. Just a text or two, things like “ _see that goal?_ ” or “ _thorntons even bigger in person_.” Jeff deletes them all.

The only thing Jeff appreciates about his new life is how effortlessly he fits in with the guys in the house. They’re all young, struggling to make ends meet, and like to party and watch hockey. And, best of all, they like Jeff. Even through the moping and the general douchery Jeff trails with him everywhere he goes.

***

The night before the Flyers are in town the third week in March, Gagne comes home from work brandishing an envelope and a smug grin.

“Tickets.” Gagne crows, holding them out of Nash’s reach, hopping a step lower on the porch steps. “To the Kings.”

Nash whistles. Jeff frowns over the neck of his fifth beer.

Gagne waggles his eyebrows at Jeff. “Your sugar daddy came into work today.”

“Mine?” Jeff asks. “Bullshit.”

Gagne shrugs, settling onto the railing across from Jeff and Nash. He catches the beer Jeff throws at him. “Should have told us you were running from _Mike Richards_.”

“I’m not.” Gagne waves the envelope again, and Jeff sighs. “We knew each other. In Philly.”

“ _Knew_ knew or-?”

“Fuck off.” Jeff reaches forward, grabbing the envelope from Gagne’s lap. There are four tickets, one hundred level. Jeff’s only ever been to that one NHL game with his grandpa, but he’s pretty sure these are killer tickets. He slips them back into the envelope and hands it over. “You guys should go. Take RJ and Wiz.”

“There are four tickets.”

“Yeah.” Jeff finishes off his beer. He’s pretty sure he has half a joint in his room and he gets up. “Don’t save one me one.”

***

Jeff watches the game on the shitty TV in the living room. He’s pretty drunk before it even starts, and by the second period his vision is blurred. Richie’s playing a pretty terrible game. Two turnovers in the first, followed by an undisciplined slashing penalty. Richie sits for most of the second, scowling and gripping his stick in the middle of the bench. Jeff tries not to look at him each time the camera swings that direction.

The Kings lose, 2-4, but the guys come back warm and buzzed and high off the crowd and the game and sitting so close. “Hockey players look so much bigger up close,” RJ tells Jeff, throwing an arm over his shoulders as he joins Jeff on the couch.

Jeff snorts. “We are hockey players.”

“Right, but,” RJ leans towards Jeff’s ear conspiratorially, “not real ones.”

Jeff stomach lurches. Fuck this. “Wanna say that again?” He dislodges RJ, getting up from the couch and grabbing the pile of sticks in the corner. “Get the ball,” he nods at Gagne and heads out without making sure they’re following him.

It’s late, past midnight, so it’s safe enough to play in the street, where there’s plenty of room to move and run and pass. It’s better than the sad excuse for a driveway next to the house. So, Jeff grabs the chalk, measures out the distances for the goals, and draws deep, dark circles to mark them off.

It’s a raucous affair, as half the street comes to join. Which is good. Jeff wants to play five-on-five, _real_ hockey, even in LA in the warm March air and the moon shining bright above the pavement. Jeff misses ice, misses it like breathing, as he stickhandles the ball and feels it slide across the gravel.

“Okay?” Gags bumps his shoulder against Jeff’s. Jeff sways on his feet, using his stick to steady himself. It’s possible he’s a little drunker than he thought.

“Yeah, course.” Jeff taps his stick, hard, against Gags’ bare shins. “I just wanna play some hockey.”

It’s not like playing for the Kings. It’s not even like playing pond hockey. It is fun, though, competitive and packed with skill. If circumstances had been different, Jeff thinks, each and every one of these guys could have made it. Maybe, probably, if a few things had just broken their way. Like it did for Richie.

Jeff shakes his head, calling for a line change so that he can get back out there, focus on the ball and his sneakers and the feel of Gags’ arms, warm and hard around Jeff’s neck after he banks in a no-look backhand pass off Jeff’s tape. They’re good together, in the street, and Jeff grabs him back.

Jeff’s team is up 9-8 after an hour when Jeff finds himself up against Wiz. He’s running sideways, reaching out with his stick to knock the puck off Wiz’s stick. But Wiz is running fast, his hands blurring Jeff’s vision and Jeff is still pretty drunk, pretty unbalanced, and he reaches out with his right foot, awkwardly, a second too soon, and hears the crack long before he feels the pain.

“Shit, Carts?” Wiz is kneeling next to him instantly, but Jeff holds up his hand.

“I’m good, just-” Jeff grabs for Wiz’s hand and tries to stand, his right leg buckling under him and he falls back to the ground. “Yeah, maybe I’ll just-?” He settles back down, ignoring the pain in his forearm to grip at his foot.

“Shit.” Wiz repeats, unhelpfully. 

Gags joins him, kneeling by Jeff’s ankle, grimacing in the faint light from the street lamp. “Not getting out of a trip to the Emergency Room with this one, buddy.”

Fuck. Jeff wants to argue. The ER is expensive, and if they order x-rays or have to put him in a cast- “Nah, it’s fine. I’ll wait for the clinic.” Gags glares at him but Jeff just shrugs. “It’s not gonna fall off overnight.”

It’s a close thing, though. Jeff spends the night on his bed, his leg elevated and wrapped in beer cans Wiz froze for him. It’s enough to sort of numb the area, but not enough to take much more than the edge off, and by 8 am his foot’s a mottled green-purple and swollen far past the size of his shoe. 

Gags frowns as he unwraps the makeshift ice packs and pokes at Jeff’s ankle. Jeff hisses. “Shit, stop.”

“Okay, okay, just, try not to move it, yeah?” Gags takes the bulk of his weight as they hobble to the front of house and down the steps. Jeff’s still feeling a little drunk and definitely pretty woozy from the pain, so he throws his keys at Gags.

“Thanks, man.”

Gags shrugs. “Shit, I just wanna be there when they amputate.”

The clinic isn’t too far away, but it’s packed on a Saturday morning. Jeff spends hours elevating his leg on a flimsy plastic chair, biting his lip as the alcohol and the numbness wear off, until Gags finally sighs and claps him on the shoulder. 

“I’ve got a shift at 2, so-”

Jeff glances at the clock. They’ve been here for five hours. “Yeah, yeah, go. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m gonna take the car.”

“I can’t drive anyway.” Jeff motions at his foot. It isn’t looking great.

“I’ll be back when I’m done, ehh?”

“Sure, sure.” Jeff rests his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. Without Gags there to distract him, time slows and Jeff doesn’t know how much passes before he’s finally called back. The doctor takes one look at his foot and orders a number of x-rays. Jeff’s glad he waited for the clinic.

It’s a slight fracture to the top of his foot and a torn ankle tendon. Six weeks in a boot, probably more with the way Jeff will have to walk on it at work. He’s just filling out the discharge paperwork, wondering when Gags’ shift is over, when the curtain rustles and he looks up to see- “Richie?”

“Ahh, hi.” Richie’s hands are buried in his pockets, his shoulders set and his eyes not meeting Jeff’s. He looks tired, too thin for his hoodie, and his hair is curling over his forehead. He needs a haircut.

“What are you doing here?” Jeff asks, biting back all the other things he wants to say, starting with _you asshole_ and ending somewhere around _I miss you_.

Richie shrugs, eyes flitting up to glance at Jeff, before dropping them again. “Gags called me.”

“Oh.”

“He picked up an extra shift, and he didn’t want you to have to-” Richie shrugs, his hands fidgeting until he grabs Jeff’s chart off the end of his bed and stops, eyebrows narrowing. “What the fuck, Carts?”

“It’s not a big deal.” Jeff shrugs, ignoring the way it pulls at his ankle. There isn’t really anything he can do at the moment that isn’t painful. “Hockey injury, you know how they go.”

“Right.” Richie bites his lip. He looks like he wants to say more, but shakes his head. “Nurses said I could spring you.”

“Yeah, cool. I’ve just gotta grab my bill.”

Richie looks sheepish. “I took care of it.”

“No.” Just- no. Fuck that.

“Carts-”

Jeff struggles off the bed, grabbing his sweatshirt and pulling it over his head a little unsteadily. Richie reaches out, but Jeff ducks out of his help. “I’m not going to be your charity case.”

Richie snorts. “No one would ever mistake you for a charity case.”

“Fuck you,” Jeff bites back, as natural as breathing.

Richie smiles at the corner of his mouth, then looks awkward about it. “I’m still paying the bill for your stupid foot. It’s, ahh,” he shoves his hands into his pockets again, “the least I can do.”

Which is stupid, because, “you don’t owe me anything.” Jeff’s feeling a little nauseous, the medication and the hangover and the eight hours in a clinic getting to him. He lets his crutches take the bulk of is weight. “You never did.”

“I,” Richie swallows. “I asked you to come out here.”

Jeff shrugs. It still hurts. “I would have come even if you hadn’t asked.”

“I know.”

And that, that’s just the problem. Jeff would do anything for Richie, and Richie knows it. It’s a power imbalance neither of them are comfortable with.

“Look,” Richie starts, frowning with his entire face. “You’re injured and, ahh, medicated, so we probably shouldn’t have this conversation now.”

He sounds- adult, and Jeff kind of hates it, hates that Richie grew up when he wasn’t watching. Jeff had thought he was leaving for himself, but maybe leaving was exactly what Richie had needed, too.

In the car, Jeff tries not to catalogue how different things are: the GPS stuck to the front windshield, the game puck in one of the cup holders, the packet of mail strewn across the back seat. Glaring back at the road, he can’t help noticing the way the sun gleams off the watch on Richie’s wrist. 

Richie notices him looking and self-consciously pulls his sleeve to his knuckles when they’re stopped at the next red light. “I never asked, but, you weren’t wearing yours. Those last few weeks.”

Jeff shrugs, tries not to think about Christine and the fight that came after. “I wasn’t,” he agrees.

Richie looks like he wants to ask, like it’s killing him not to, but he doesn’t. Not until he’s helped Jeff out of the car and has manhandled them both into Jeff’s bedroom, despite Jeff’s protests. 

As he’s turning to leave, Jeff says, quietly, maybe because he wants to hurt Richie and maybe because he just thinks Richie should know, “I sold it. To help Christine.”

Richie freezes, back framed in the doorway, stiff and hard and Jeff doesn’t think he’s ever hurt as much as he does now. Richie doesn’t glance back as he murmurs, “I was always going to ask you to come with me.”

***

Jeff’s lounging on his porch, weaning himself off his painkillers with beer and Gags’ company, when Richie pulls up.

“Uhh,” Jeff tries, squinting as Richie stops on the second-to-last step. He honestly wasn’t expecting to see Richie again, not so soon. “Twice in a week. Should I feel popular?”

Richie rolls his eyes. “Can I have a beer?”

Gags throws him one from the cooler as he stands. “I’m gonna leave you two assholes to figure out your shit.”

Jeff hates him. Just a little bit. Richie just nods and takes Gags’ empty seat.

“I don’t know what you’re doing here,” Jeff says, finally, feeling out of his depth, just like he used to, when whatever this thing is between him and Richie was new and fragile and unsure. 

Richie shrugs, balancing his chair on its legs so that he can tilt his head into the sun. Jeff’s stomach twists. Richie’s an asshole.

“I meant it when I said we shouldn’t have this conversation at the clinic.” Richie shrugs again. “I’m fine with having it here.”

Jeff huffs. “You want to _talk_? That’s new.”

“Sure.”

“Never did before.”

“I was a dick.” Richie rolls his head towards Jeff, like he’s come to terms with it, like he can will Jeff to come to terms with it, too.

“Yeah,” Jeff agrees.

It’s almost April, warm in the sun in ways that Philly never could be. Richie rolls up his sleeves as he grabs for another beer, and Jeff stares.

“Your watch?” Jeff asks, because that stupid watch has, somehow, become a symbol of everything there no longer is between them.

Richie shrugs, way too casually to be real. “It wasn’t important.”

And Jeff doesn’t know how to take that. Doesn’t want to hope, not yet, not now, not when he’s four months out of practice reading Richie.

Richie sighs. “You didn’t come to the Flyers game.”

Jeff shakes his head.

“I noticed and I- I played a shit game.”

“I saw.” Richie arches an eyebrow and Jeff amends, “I watched on TV.”

“Oh.” Richie smiles, just a little, like he’s just now realizing that maybe he hasn’t completely screwed this up, not for good. “Coach benched me in the second.”

Jeff motions towards his elevated leg. “I broke my foot.” It’s an olive branch, and Richie grabs it, shaking his head and laughing. Jeff’s never known him to let go of something after he’s decided it’s his.

“We’re a pair, huh?”

“Just two kids from North Philly.”

“Yeah,” Richie says, quietly. “Yeah, we are.” Then, he shakes his head. “I have practice, but, if I come by, again, that would be-?”

“Okay,” Jeff agrees, nodding. Richie stands, awkwardly, before settling on clapping Jeff’s shoulder, waving stupidly as he jogs down the steps. 

***

Jeff lets Richie make all the moves. Jeff did it last time. Jeff was the one strong enough to walk away, for both of them, and, Jeff figures, it’s Richie’s turn now. 

Things don’t actually change that much. Jeff’s foot is still broken, he still works at Burger King, still spends most evenings drinking and smoking a joint or two on his porch, sometimes tries to hobble his way through a pick-up game with the guys. 

Just, sometimes, now, Richie joins them. Even takes a drag or two, when he’s not playing the next day. He fits, with the guys, as awkward and as self-conscious as he always was in Philly. Jeff’s missed him. Has, he realizes, since they arrived in LA nine months ago.

Richie doesn’t touch him, though. And he doesn’t talk about the four months since Jeff moved out. Jeff doesn’t push.

This new thing feels fragile, tender, raw. But at the same time, Jeff feels like they’re set in a holding pattern, unsatisfying, damaged, yet maddeningly consistent.

In the end, it’s Sean Avery who breaks them out of it. He shows up, Cammalleri behind him, on the first Sunday afternoon in April. Jeff’s on the porch, with Gags and Wiz, and narrows his eyes when he sees them.

“So this is where Richie gets to these days.” Avery stops at the top of the steps, leaning on the railing next to Jeff’s shoulder. “Should have known.”

Jeff looks over Avery’s shoulder at Camms, who just shrugs. “We stole the address off Richie’s GPS.”

Jeff rolls his eyes. “Never quit your day jobs.” He does, however, hand over a couple of beers.

Avery scoffs, accepting the can. “I have better back-up plans, trust me.”

“Never,” Jeff promises.

“This is where you moved, huh?” Avery glances around. The front door is open, torn-up couch and furniture-less dining room clearly visible; Jeff wishes it wasn’t. Avery, though, just shrugs. “Nicer than Richie’s new place.”

“He moved?” Jeff asks, too fast despite himself.

“Yeah.” Camms frowns. “Last month. Little place on the beach.”

“Dragged us to Ikea,” Avery frowns, emphasis on _Ikea_ as if it’s a dirty word.

“Huh.” Jeff had, honestly, figured that, while his life had changed drastically, Richie’s would be pretty much the same.

Avery shrugs, forced nonchalance. “He went through a thing when you left. Got really quiet. Donated half his salary to that Women’s Center on San Pedro.” 

Jeff thinks _Christine_ and says, “Richie’s always been a little crazy.”

“For sure.” Avery finishes his beer. “So, we gotta go. Just wanted to see what the rookie’s gotten himself into.”

***

Jeff does make the first move, after all.

He can hear Arnold barking on the other side of the door as he knocks and, when Richie opens it, Jeff immediately crouches down to let Arnold greet him. When he lost Richie, he’d lost Arnold, too, and Jeff’s missed him.

“Hey,” Richie grins, a little fragile, and Jeff can read him, like he could eight months ago. It makes his stomach lurch.

“Hey,” Jeff greets. “Avery told me you moved. Hope it’s okay I dropped by.”

“Of course, yeah.” Richie digs his hands into his pockets. “It’s good.”

“Good,” Jeff agrees. Arnold gets bored with him and wonders into the living room. Jeff follows, raising an eyebrow. “Avery wasn’t lying about Ikea.”

Richie shrugs, leaning against the half-wall between the kitchen and living room. “You were right, about the money.”

“He also told me about the women’s shelter.”

Richie looks down, away.

“Thank you.” Jeff steps forward. “Mike, thank you.”

“Fuck, just-” Richie reaches forward, pulling Jeff to him and into a kiss, warm and chapped and gentle and, almost, like Jeff remembers it, until Richie pulls back and whispers, “Jesus, I’ve missed you.”

Jeff swallows. He wants this, always has, but he needs to know, needs to protect himself this time. “I can’t- It can’t just be sex. Not for me.”

Richie’s shaking his head, a sad, worn smile on his lips, and Jeff caves, kissing him. Richie’s chuckling as he pulls back. “It’s not. It’s never been. Just- I was an asshole, can we leave it at that?”

It’s not exactly what Jeff wants, but it’s close enough, and he wraps his fingers in Richie’s shirt, pulling him forward, in the direction of what he assumes is Richie’s bedroom. Jeff’s still wearing the boot, though, so it’s slow going, awkward when they have to stop to peel Jeff’s shorts over it, even worse when Jeff has to pause at the side of the bed to catch his breath, then swing his aching foot onto the mattress. It’s still good, though, when Richie gets his hand around Jeff’s dick. Better than good, really.

Afterwards, Jeff wonders if he should leave, but Richie throws a leg over him, mumbles something about pain pills in the bathroom cabinet, and falls asleep. Jeff, for once, doesn’t take long to follow.

***

Richie asks Jeff to move back in. Jeff refuses. He’s just starting to get his life together in LA, saving a little bit of money, thinking about a few night classes at community college, and he loves the guys he lives with, loves having his own space, loves that there’s a place here for him that was not Richie’s first.

Doesn’t keep him from spending half his nights at Richie’s though, and Richie even spends a few at Jeff’s.

“I was gonna make you eggs, but,” Richie shrugs, handing Jeff a beer the first night he sleeps over. “All you’ve got is beer.”

“Cool.” Jeff opens it, swallowing half in one go. “Just like old times, ehh?”

Richie grins, stealing the can from Jeff to finish it off. “We have time before I have to get to the rink. Wanna?”

“Absolutely.” Richie grabs Jeff’s wrist, drags him into Jeff’s bedroom. Jeff’s not about to argue.

***

The Kings don’t make the playoffs. They’re a young team, though, and Richie’s in an upbeat mood when the cab drops him and Arnold off at Jeff’s. Arnold barks, running up the steps to greet Jeff and Jeff laughs. “They let mutts in taxis these days?”

Richie looks a little guilty. “I had to pay the guy off. Just a little.”

Jeff laughs, again, patting the top of Arnold’s head. “A lot, I bet.”

“Whatever.” Richie rolls his eyes. “So, I cleared my locker out this morning. I have six weeks until I have to be back for training.”

“Yeah?” Jeff notices, for the first time, the duffle at Richie’s feet.

“I haven’t ever been to Vancouver.”

“West coast road trip?”

“Maybe.” Richie looks unsure, a little worried still, and Jeff just shakes his head.

“Let me pack a bag.” It doesn’t take him long, just a few shirts and a change of shorts, an extra pair of flip-flops. Then they’re all piling in to Jeff’s beat-up old Chevy, and pulling out of the city.

“In my bag, if you want-” Richie trails off, and Jeff turns around in his seat to dig through Richie’s duffel. At the top of the bag is the GPS he’d seen in Richie’s car, the night he drove Jeff home from the hospital.

“Thought you didn’t believe in electronic navigation.”

“Yeah, well,” Richie shrugs. “I lost you for a while there.”

Jeff doesn’t have an answer to that, so he settles into his seat, bare feet on the dashboard and head tipped back so that he can watch LA disappear in the rear-view mirror.

“I’m going to miss it,” Jeff admits. LA’s different. She’s been good to them.

“Yeah.” Richie holds out his hand, palm up, on the center console. Jeff gently interlaces their fingers. “We’re coming back though, this time.”

“Yeah,” Jeff agrees. “Yeah, we are.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you want to chat about Carts and Richie, class issues and hockey, road trips, or road trip music, comment here or find me on [tumblr](http://stainyourhands.tumblr.com/)!


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